Evidently there was no doubt in either of their minds that Hyacinth would accept Dr. Henry’s offer. Nor had he any doubt himself. The thing seemed too inevitable to be anything but right. Only on Canon Beecher’s face there lingered a shadow of uncertainty. Hyacinth saw it, and relieved his mind at once.
‘I shall write to Dr. Henry to-night and thank him. I shall ask him to try and get me a curacy as soon as possible.’
‘Thank you,’ said the Canon.
‘I think,’ added Hyacinth, ‘that I should prefer getting work in England.’
‘Oh, why,’ said Mrs. Beecher. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to stay in Ireland! and then we might have Marion somewhere within reach.’
‘My dear,’ said the Canon, ‘we must let Hyacinth decide for himself. I am sure he knows what is wisest for him to do.’
Hyacinth was not at all sure that he knew what was wisest, and he was quite certain that he had not decided for himself in any matter of the slightest importance. He had suggested an English curacy in the vague hope that it might be easier there to forget his hopes and dreams for Ireland. It seemed to him, too, that a voluntary exile, of which he could not think without pain, might be a kind of atonement for the betrayal of his old enthusiasm.
The Canon followed him to the door when he left.
‘My dear boy’—there was a break in his voice as he spoke—’ my dear boy, you have made me very happy. I am sure that you will not enter upon the work of the ministry from any unworthy motive. The call will become clearer to you by degrees. I mean the inward call. The outward call, the leading of circumstance, has already made abundantly plain the way you ought to walk in. The other will come—the voice which brings assurance and peace when it speaks.’
Hyacinth looked at him wistfully. There seemed very little possibility of anything like assurance for him, and only such peace as might be gained by smothering the cries with which his heart assailed him. The Canon held his hand and wrung it.